


The Annals:  Part 4.1 of An Irregular Series

by Nightdog_Barks



Series: The Annals [4]
Category: House M.D.
Genre: Alternate Universe - Historical, Ancient Rome, Friendship, Gen, Historical
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2008-02-02
Updated: 2008-02-02
Packaged: 2017-10-18 05:00:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 15,195
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/185302
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nightdog_Barks/pseuds/Nightdog_Barks
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Just how long have House and Wilson known each other?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Not just AU, but historical AU. Once again I have taken some (minor) liberties with the world of real life and ideas; I hope the history gods find it in their hearts to forgive me.

_**Housefic: The Annals: Part Four of An Irregular Series (1/3)**_  
 **STATUS:** Crossposted to [](http://house-wilson.livejournal.com/profile)[**house_wilson**](http://house-wilson.livejournal.com/) 2/2/2008.  
 **TITLE:** The Annals: Part 4.1 of An Irregular Series  
 **AUTHOR:** [](http://nightdog-writes.livejournal.com/profile)[**nightdog_writes**](http://nightdog-writes.livejournal.com/)  
 **PAIRING:** House-Wilson friendship, other original characters  
 **RATING:** PG-13  
 **WARNINGS:** Yes, for mature emotional themes.  
 **SPOILERS:** No; it's just a story.  
 **SUMMARY:** Just how long have House and Wilson known each other?  
 **DISCLAIMER:** Don't own 'em. Never will.  
 **AUTHOR NOTES:** Not just AU, but historical AU. Once again I have taken some (minor) liberties with the world of real life and ideas; I hope the history gods find it in their hearts to forgive me.  
Profound thanks, as always, to my intrepid First Readers. Without their steadfast support and encouragement I would be lost. Especial thanks to [](http://purridot.livejournal.com/profile)[**purridot**](http://purridot.livejournal.com/) for her invaluable help with Latin and Old Saxon, and [](http://bironic.livejournal.com/profile)[**bironic**](http://bironic.livejournal.com/) for her final editing run-through.  
Source notes are at the end of the third part. This section is 7,994 words.  
 **BETA: Silverjackal** , who asked, "What's next?"

[The Annals: Part One of An Irregular Series](http://community.livejournal.com/house_wilson/617982.html#cutid1)   
[The Annals: Part Two of An Irregular Series](http://community.livejournal.com/house_wilson/764546.html#cutid1)   
[The Annals: Part Three of An Irregular Series](http://community.livejournal.com/house_wilson/1037815.html#cutid1)

 **The Annals: Part Four of An Irregular Series**

 _Corda serata fero.  
I carry a heart locked up._

 _  
Afterwards, for a long time, James associates the sight and scent of cypress with death. He knows where it started -- at the main gate to a clean, well-kempt Roman villa in Gallia Narbonensis._

 _ **We should have left,** James thinks sometimes, on those long dark nights when Gregorius falls into one of his rare depressions and it seems an eternity before the sunrise. **Never should have entered, should have simply turned our horses' heads away and not looked back. Gregorius was right. He usually is.**_

 _It's too late, of course. Far too late to turn back._

  


* * *

  
"Well, it's certainly not Germania, I'll give you that," Gregorius said. The chestnut mare shook her head and made a soft whuffling noise. The Roman shifted in his saddle and glanced at James.

"No, my lord, it is not," the slave murmured, his eyes not moving from the expanse of blue spread out before them. The valley below was awash in it -- purple and azure blooms nodding in the light breeze like waves on a terrestrial ocean. The flowers' scent carried on the wind, perfuming the air with a sweet, hay-like aroma.

"Spikenard?"

The surgeon nodded. "Lavender, yes." He smiled, just a little. "One of the many treasures of _Provincia Nostra."_ James tilted his head back, soaking in the warm sun, then looked over quickly to see the Roman's smile grow wider.

"Your Hebrew god will be jealous," the surgeon gently teased. "Your sun worship has displaced him."

James grinned back. "I am no follower of Mithras," he said. "It is the heat -- in this warm season it reminds me of Judea."

"Ah, I might have guessed," Gregorius replied. "I was there only once, when I was but a boy. My father was posted to Caesarea, so at least we had a cooling sea breeze, but I do remember the heat."

The slave waited for more, but the Roman had fallen silent. Gregorius had kept the promise he had made in Germania, when James had still been dazed and half-frozen after their terrible, circular sojourn in the snow. He had been telling stories of his childhood and youth all the way south from that barbaric land. While many of the stories had been interesting, and some of them quite humorous, they had one thing in common -- they were all surface. They were like a still pond into which someone had tossed a small stone -- the ripples spread outwards, catching reflections and making a mirror of the sky, but the stone disappeared. It seemed to somehow ease the Roman's mind, though. He was always more relaxed after a story, even one like this that consisted of only a few words and was more observation than anything else. James hid a smile as the surgeon wiggled his left foot free from the leather-wrapped ring at the end of his mounting strap and lifted his leg to rest it across the chestnut mare's withers. The horse shook her head again but made no other objection.

They sat quietly at the edge of the valley. The sun's warmth was soothing, and the songs of the small insects in the fields added a lulling, soporific note.

 _It is so peaceful here,_ James thought lazily. _Peaceful, and beautiful. Truly this is a land of contentment_. As if reading his mind, the Roman's sardonic voice broke his reverie.

"Do not fall asleep just yet," he said. "It appears we are needed back at camp."

The slave twisted around in his saddle and squinted in the direction Gregorius was pointing.

A plume of dust was rising in the distance along the country road they had taken, kicked up by the galloping hooves of a courier's mount.

  


* * *

  
"Longinus," the surgeon drawled as he eased himself from his saddle, "how good to see you again. It seems like only this morning -- " he cocked his head as if struck by a sudden realization -- "Wait, it _was_ this morning! What is so important that I needed fetching? James and I were on the very verge of discovering a new variety of -- "

The centurion's fair, freckled face was pink with irritation, his lips pressed into a thin line of exasperation as he thrust a scroll case into the surgeon's hands.

"This arrived not long after you left," he growled. "I thought you would want to see it right away, since it bears your father's seal."

Gregorius held the leather-bound case as if it was a deadly serpent that might turn and bite him at any time.

"My father does not write to me," he said.

"I know that," Longinus said. "It is why I summoned you." He turned away, motioning for an aide to take charge of the mare and pony. "You may thank me later."

The surgeon grimaced at the unopened scroll. "Very well," he sighed. "Come, James. Let us see what my father thought so important after all these years."

* * *

James busied himself in the infirmary tent as Gregorius seated himself at a rough-hewn table a few feet away. He looked at the rows of thick glassware flasks on a shelf, gauging the level in each. _More henbane seeds,_ he thought, _more poppy syrup, more ammonia and acetum ..._

He went over a list in his mind, and after a moment sharpened a reed pen and began to make notes. He heard the whisper of papyrus behind him as the message scroll was unrolled but paid it no mind. It wasn't until he realized the surgeon had been silent for a while that James spoke.

"What news, Gregorius?"

When Gregorius didn't answer immediately, James glanced in his direction. The surgeon was staring at the document laid out on the table.

"Gregorius?" The Roman didn't answer. "My lord, is something wrong?"

The physician lifted his head; his blue eyes were distant and unfocused. After a moment he cleared his throat.

"My mother," he said. He looked back down at the scroll as if hoping that in that time the message had changed. "My mother is dead."

James blinked, believing for a moment that he'd simply misheard. "My lord?"

Gregorius scrubbed at his face with one hand. He rubbed slowly along his jaw as if feeling for the first time the stubble that was always there.

"My mother," he repeated, and finally looked up at James. "A week ago. More. It's hard to tell." His brows drew together and his expression hardened. "My father has ... smeared some of the ink here. Run a few of the words together. He never did have a good fist when it came to writing."

James willed his legs to move and crossed the room in a few steps. He knelt beside the surgeon's chair. "My lord, I am sorry," he said. "Is there anything I can do?"

The physician was silent. The silence lasted so long that the slave had just opened his mouth to ask again when Gregorius picked up the scroll and began to briskly roll it shut.

"Do?" he mused. "Yes, you can finish the inventory you started. Be sure and make three copies as usual -- two for Longinus and the quartermaster, and keep one for us. After that you can prepare some more tinctures and check the rest of my _real_ mail -- there should have been at least one new medical treatise there. If Longinus has kept it from me in favor of -- " He paused for a moment. "Tell him he will not be welcome at my game of cards tomorrow night."

James had closed his mouth halfway through the surgeon's task list; he opened it again, feeling almost dizzy.

"I ... you ..." he began.

Gregorius fixed him with an intense blue stare. "James," he warned.

"But, my lord ..."

"James," the surgeon said again. His expression was entirely unreadable. "We will not speak of this thing again. Do you understand?"

"I ..." Gregorius's gaze was unwavering. "I understand, my lord," he finished helplessly.

"Good," the surgeon said, and turned away. "Now get up and get to work."

* * *

  
"I _told_ James I did not want to speak of this again," the physician growled, and shot a furious glare at the slave who sat half-hidden in the corner's shadows.

"It was not him," Longinus replied, unruffled by the surgeon's anger. "Do you think I have only one source in this cohort to keep me apprised of your activities?" He took another long draught of wine and dragged a hand through his hair. The red thatch spiked up for a moment like a rooster's comb before it settled back down.

The shadows flickered; it was now full night and the only light in Gregorius's tent was from the torches the slave had lit.

"We are only a few days' ride from your father's villa," Longinus continued. "Naturally, you will want to participate in the funeral rites -- "

"Naturally, I will _not,"_ Gregorius snapped.

"Gregorius -- "

 _"I will not!_ I had no intention of visiting my father before this, and I have no intention now."

Longinus leaned forward, resting his beefy forearms on the table. The oiled leather of his jerkin gleamed in the torchlight. "He is your _father,_ Gregorius."

"Do you think I don't know that? Do you think I've somehow _forgotten?"_

"No!" Longinus slammed his stoneware cup down. The table rattled with the force of the blow, and James wedged himself a little deeper into the shadows.

"I do not think you have forgotten your father," the centurion shouted. "But whatever you may think, _this is not about him._ The person you have forgotten, Gregorius, is your _mother!"_

The air in the tent seemed thick and heavy, as if a thunderstorm were brewing. James waited breathlessly for the spark that would set the two men to fighting, but the surgeon held still, though his right hand was clenching and unclenching as if in a terrible spasm.

"You will go," Longinus said very softly, "and you will attend whatever funeral rites are left to attend, and you will say the words and importune the gods and you will mean all of it because it is your duty to your mother."

The surgeon's hand continued to work. "You speak to me of duty," he said quietly.

"I speak to you of duty because it is the only thing that means anything to you. You, who have always put duty above all, always doing the _right thing_ even when it means possible injury to others. You and your own personal code of conduct. You could not live any other way." Longinus drained the last of his wine and stood up. "Take James with you," he said. "Perhaps he can keep you out of trouble."

He set the cup on the table, very gently this time, and was gone.

* * *

James waited as the centurion carefully signed his name to the bottom of a report. The morning sun shone brightly through the commander's tent. Outside was the normal noise of the camp -- men shouted, dogs barked, pots and pans clanged from the mess tent. It all sounded like home to James now.

Gregorius had been uncharacteristically silent after Longinus's departure the night before. This morning, though, he had gruffly ordered the slave to prepare for their journey to his family's villa. Now the chestnut mare and roan pony stood saddled and ready while the dark bay pack horse nodded at the end of its tether rope -- and Gregorius was nowhere to be found.

The centurion did not seem concerned. "Do you know why I summoned you, James?" he asked.

"No, my lord," the slave replied. In truth, he had some idea, but his years of captivity had taught him it was better to let whoever was master speak first.

"Watch over him," Longinus said, and James relaxed a tiny fraction. It was what he had thought.

"Watch over him," the centurion repeated. "Gregorius's relationship with his father has never been one that others might call amicable, but it worsened considerably after that damned Scythian lance tore his leg apart." Longinus had left off the paperwork before him and was staring into space. He sighed and looked at James, seeming to see him for the first time.

"We were raised together," he said. "Has he told you that?"

"No, my lord."

Longinus regarded him thoughtfully. "He will," he said. "He likes you, and more than that, he trusts you. He will tell you everything, eventually. Perhaps even more than he tells me." He swiveled in his seat and gazed out at the camp clearing. "His father and mine -- Gaius and Lucius -- they served together, and Gregorius and I became friends. More than friends. We swore our fealty to each other as brothers. But where I wanted to follow my father into the Legions, Gregorius did not. So he and his father compromised. Gregorius studied to become a _Medicus_ \-- he was thus of the Army but not a commissioned officer. Gaius was disappointed. He did not hide it well. And after Gregorius was wounded ... " The centurion blew out a small frustrated breath from between his lips.

"He blames his father," James murmured. The centurion looked sharply at him.

"He blames his father for many things," he rumbled. "But he is not entirely innocent either." Longinus's expression grew grim. "He pushed. By all the gods, he pushed, challenging Gaius on the most trivial of matters. If his father said the sky was clear, Gregorius would predict rain before nightfall. If Gaius wanted him to learn sword-play, Gregorius reached for a bow." The centurion looked at the reed pen he still held in his right hand. "For weeks on end, when he was fourteen, he would speak nothing but his mother's barbaric tongue, rejecting the Latin that was his by birthright. That was the last straw for Gaius."

James licked at his suddenly dry lips. "What did he do, my lord?"

Longinus set the pen down.

"He took away his scrolls. His notebooks. Everything except Gregorius's school texts, and built a bonfire of them. And that -- " the centurion smiled, but it was a smile with no humor in it, " -- did the trick. Or so Gaius thought." At James's look of surprise, Longinus continued.

"It was only a month later that his father caught him composing a lexicon on scraps of papyrus he'd scrounged -- writing down words in his mother's language, spelling out their meanings."

"Gaius burned those too. And if Gregorius ever spoke his mother's tongue again, I never heard it." He scrubbed one large hand along his jaw. So the willful, headstrong boy has grown into a willful, headstrong man. I am charging you to watch over him, keep him from doing or saying anything he might have cause to regret later."

 _You might as well order me to keep back the tide,_ James thought. He twisted the iron cuff on his left wrist. "My lord," he began hesitantly, "I am just a slave -- the _Medicus_ is a ... is a ... "

"A Roman?" The centurion's right eyebrow quirked upward in wry humor. "I am quite aware of that fact. Still, if there is anyone he will listen to on this funereal journey, it is you." His expression became serious. "Do what you can, James," he said. "That is all that I ask."

James bowed his head. "I will, my lord."

"James!" a familiar voice shouted impatiently. In the next moment a pair of well-known blue eyes were peering into the centurion's tent. _"There_ you are." Gregorius shot a calculating glance at Longinus. "All done? Finished _commanding_ James to be my nanny, nurse, and caretaker on this little excursion?"

The centurion grinned. "You know me too well," he said.

"Like a brother," Gregorius grumbled, and jerked his head in the direction of the three horses. "Let's go," he said. "I want to get this over with."

* * *

The cypress garlands adorning the front gate of the estate had obviously been hanging there for some days. They were turning brown and were brittle to the touch. Their fresh scent had faded, leaving behind an odor that reminded James of clothes left too long in an unopened chest. The horses tossed their heads and whickered uneasily. He glanced at Gregorius; the surgeon's face was grim.

"I do not want to do this," the Roman muttered. "But if I turn around now you will tattle on me to Longinus."

"My lord, Longinus is not here," the slave answered gently. "And I will tell him whatever you command me to tell him." The surgeon looked away, and James noticed he was rubbing at his right thigh. "Gregorius, all will be well," he murmured. "After all -- a father could not be more delighted at the return of an only son."

The Roman snorted. "Your Greek bard was a great poet, but he did not know _my_ father," he said dryly. "I prefer the more realistic Ovid, from his _Metamorphoses."_ He kicked his chestnut mare lightly in the flanks; obviously he considered the subject closed.

James kept the roan pony at a sedate walk as he searched his memory. When the short epigram finally surfaced, he groaned and pinched the bridge of his nose.

 _Would that the gods had devised things so that I had no father ..._

Ahead of him he saw the surgeon stop for a moment where a field slave had apparently been repairing a section of the low stone wall that ran beside the road. When Gregorius gestured to him the man left his work and came forward eagerly. The Roman said something and pointed imperiously down the dusty road. The slave nodded and took off at a steady trot. James urged the roan pony onward and caught up to the surgeon, who was watching the field slave grow smaller and smaller as he disappeared into the distance.

"What did you say to him, my lord?"

"I told him -- " The Roman's lips twisted, as if he had suddenly found something bitter and foul on his tongue. "I told him to go and tell the rest of the household that Gregorius Aquilinus has come home."

* * *

The villa was like many others James had seen -- a low-slung building constructed of whitewashed brick, roofed with terracotta tiles that had been bleached to a dull, dusty rose by the sun. A larger building loomed a short distance away, and James caught the distinctive odor of a barn.

A half-dozen slaves -- _household staff,_ James knew -- were lined up outside, and a stableboy dashed up to take over the reins of the visitors' horses. A tall man dressed in a simple homespun tunic much like the one James wore, stepped forward, and for a moment the slave was confused.

 _He looks nothing like Gregorius,_ he thought.

When the man spoke, the mystery was solved.

"Greetings," he said. "I am Marcus Tullius, freedman and overseer of this villa." His eyes flicked to the cuff on James's wrist, then back up to Gregorius. "And you must be Gregorius Aquilinus," he continued smoothly. "Welcome to your father's house. I am sorry it is under such sad circumstances. There are only a few days of prescribed mourning left -- "

"Where is my father?"

The overseer's mouth pursed into an unhappy expression at the rude tone.

"Gregorius ... " James murmured, and saw the freedman glance sharply at him.

"He is in the barn," Marcus replied frostily. "Attending to one of the milk cows." Noting the baffled looks, he explained further. "She is heavily pregnant, and he is afraid the birth will be a difficult one. You are invited to wait in the peristylium until he returns."

Gregorius's brows knit together, and for a moment James was sure the surgeon would turn on his heel, remount, and ride away without a second thought. Then the broad shoulders slumped.

"Very well," he sighed. "I have waited this long, I will wait some more."

Marcus nodded. "Your father will be pleased, my lord. I will have food and drink brought to you."

* * *

As long as they had to wait somewhere, the peristylium was actually quite a pleasant way station, James decided.

Open on three sides to catch even the lightest breeze, and shielded from the direct sun by a roof of tiles, trellis, and fresh green vines, it was shady and cool. Sparrows flitted back and forth, perching hopefully on the few round rough-hewn tables. The business of the villa went on about them -- field hands came and went, housemaids bustled in and out. Someone was whistling nearby. It didn't _appear_ to be a household that had suffered a recent death.

James took another sip of the watered wine a servant had brought and looked at Gregorius. The surgeon's face was fatigued and worn, and he was rubbing absently at his thigh again. His mind was clearly many leagues away.

"Gregorius," James said softly. The Roman looked up; his eyes were red-rimmed and tired. James laid his hand on the surgeon's forearm. "Tell me about your mother."

* * *

" -- and she ran away, trying to get back to her people," Gregorius said. "Only the gods know how she thought she could have made it out of Gaul, much less to Anglia. They caught her before she'd gone ten leagues." He stopped and looked away. James waited him out.

"By law she should have been crucified," the surgeon continued at last. "But she was pregnant, and my father still needed an heir. He was an engineer by that time, still attached to the legion but free to wed. So he manumitted her instead, and married her, so that his child would be that of a freewoman and not a slave. A citizen of Rome and not a bastard." He shook his head. "Lucky for him I turned out to be a son. He was ordered to Hispania not long after my birth -- so she packed us up and away we went."

James smiled, trying to picture the Roman surgeon as a squalling babe in his mother's arms.

"We trailed after him through all his postings," Gregorius continued. "And even as a boy I soon began to realize my father had certain ... expectations of me. We fought many wars. I won a few of the battles; he won more. I was a rebellious youth -- he used to tell me I had too much of my mother's blood in me. I required much ... discipline. And then one day -- " The surgeon paused, rubbed at his eyes. "One day I told him I wished my mother had gotten away, that I would rather have been raised a barbarian than carry his name forward."

"My mother began to break his heart," Gregorius said softly. "And then she bore me, and I finished the job."

James shook his head. "Gregorius -- " he began.

A new shadow fell over the two men.

"So you have come home at last," a new voice said.

Gregorius and James looked up -- James in surprise, Gregorius with reluctance.

The man standing over them was about James's height. His hair was brown, shot through with skeins of silver, and his eyes were a curious shade of greenish-brown, like mossy stones glimpsed through a flowing stream. He had the same chiseled face as his son, the same intensity of gaze. A gaze, James now realized, which was pointedly directed at James's left hand, still resting on Gregorius's forearm. He carefully moved it away and lowered his eyes to the floor.

"Father," Gregorius said.

* * *

James wasn't sure what he had expected, but he didn't think it had been anything like the icily polite neutrality the two men were exhibiting. Nor had he expected Gregorius to _introduce_ him to his father -- as a slave, James had grown used to being invisible, and had come to prefer the relative safety of that cloak. It was never a good idea to come to the attention of a Roman, and yet James could dimly hear his own name through the panicked roaring in his ears. He was sweating; keeping his eyes fixed on the ground, he thought for one horrified second that Gregorius might actually order him to clasp his father's arm in the familiar Roman manner. He glanced quickly up. From the look on Gaius's face it was obviously not a pleasant moment for him either. James returned his gaze to the floor, but still he knew he was being scrutinized; the force of the older man's inspection was palpable, and James felt the small hairs rise on the back of his neck. Scrutinized -- and dismissed, and James's breath came more easily when Gaius turned away.

"Come," Gaius grunted. "You will want to see your mother's tomb."

"No, I won't," the surgeon mumbled, too low for anyone but James to hear. The slave raised his eyes cautiously. The physician looked pale and miserable, and there was a curiously lost quality to those normally expressive eyes. James laid a gentle hand on the small of his back.

"Gregorius," he murmured, and out of the corner of his eye saw the sudden twitch in Gaius's shoulders at the name. "You will see it, and it will be done, and it will be one more step finished," he said softly. Gaius had stopped and was watching, and James saw his eyes narrow as he took in the way his son was leaning heavily on his oaken staff.

"The tomb is a short distance away," Gaius said, assessing the situation. "I will have Marcus hitch up a cart."

James could feel the surgeon's muscles tense as Gregorius straightened.

"No," he said. "No cart. We will ride."

* * *

The tomb, like that of many Roman families, was beside a road. In this case the road led to an apple orchard, and several of the fruit trees had grown up around the brick structure.

 _Gaius planned ahead,_ James thought. _Had the tomb built at the same time as the villa, so it would be here when it was needed._

It was a small tomb, for a small family, and modeled in the common fashion as a reduced replica of a Greek temple. The whitewashed bricks glowed softly in the slanting late-afternoon light. There were three large niches carved into the tomb's face, with enough space left for several more. A simple, glazed urn rested in the leftmost hollow.

 _Waiting._ The thought raised tiny goosebumps along James's bare arms. _Waiting for the day it is joined by Gaius's ashes, and after them, Gregorius and Gregorius's wife and children. If he ever **has** a wife and children._ He looked around. The surgeon's face was drawn and weary. His head was turned, and he was looking at the pommels of his saddle rather than at the tomb. Gaius was staring stolidly into space.

James could picture it all -- he had seen enough death in the camps of the Legions to know the last rites of these superstitious Romans by heart.

Gregorius's mother would have been brought outside, so that her last moments were spent under the open sky, lying on the fresh earth. Her husband would have knelt over her, drawing close to capture her final breath in a glass flask or between his own lips.

Afterwards, the funeral procession -- the knots of paid mourners, the black-robed women like tall crows, wailing in a frenzy of compensated grief. The dead woman, riding on the shoulders of the undertaker's men to her pyre. Placed upon the wood and kindling, perhaps a few personal items laid next to her, folded into her still hands. A printed prayer, a tiny statue of a god or goddess. A small portrait of her son. Her husband, leaning over her, tucking a silver _denarius_ under her tongue to pay the ferryman, then stepping back and taking the torch from his house chamberlain, Marcus Tullius. The flames leaping upwards ...

He felt suddenly sick, and ran a hand over his face. _Barbarians._

"She wanted to be among the trees," Gaius said. "She said they reminded her of home."

Gregorius snorted. It was an ugly, cynical sound in the peaceful apple grove. "Then you should have planted trees of the mountains," he said. "Aspens and rowans."

Gaius's head turned slowly to look at Gregorius. "They would not have survived here," he said.

His son shook his head and jerked at the reins of his chestnut mare. "Neither did she."

* * *

"He sleeps in the barn," Gaius said.

It had been full evening by the time the three men had returned from the small tomb among the trees. Gregorius had swayed a little upon dismounting; James had automatically steadied him and immediately felt Gaius's eyes upon him again.

They had been separated at dinner, James sent to eat with the house slaves while Gregorius and his father were served by Marcus in the villa dining room. The physician had appeared to be too tired to object, and James wondered if they had spoken at all during dinner. Here in what was to be his bedroom the surgeon was objecting at news of this second separation.

"He's my assistant," Gregorius protested. "In camp he sleeps in my tent --"

"This isn't your camp." Gaius's voice was flat and final. "This is my house, and under this roof my rule is law." He turned away from his son; it was clear he considered the discussion over. "There is no room for a spare bed in the slave quarters. He sleeps in the barn."

The surgeon was rubbing his thigh again and he had lines of pain around his eyes. James opened his mouth, intending to ask Gregorius if he needed an infusion of white willow bark, but before he got the chance the door was slammed shut in his face.

He sighed and picked up his bedroll, trying not to listen to the raised voices coming from the other side of the door.

* * *

The barn was large, and warm, and smelled of the large warm animals who sheltered in it.

James spread his blankets over the pile of straw he'd gathered and arranged into a rough nest against the wall. One of the cows seemed to give him an accusing look over the half-door of her stall.

"I'm just borrowing it," James muttered. He eased himself into the hay and pulled his cloak and an extra blanket around him. "You can have it for breakfast tomorrow."

The sounds of the barn were not so different from those of the Army camp -- the soft whuffle of horses, the calls of the night birds outside. The hay was not as comfortable as the slave's usual bedding of woolen blankets and furs -- the straw prickled at his neck and wrists and the grain dust made his nose itch -- but it was warm and he was soon asleep.

He dreamed.

***** 

_He is in a bed, and then he is not. It's hard to breathe, and strong hands have lifted him out of a cot and carried him outdoors. They lay him gently in the soft grass, and he feels dirt clods under his back and shoulders. He squints up at the sky; apple boughs stir in the fresh breeze. He coughs; there's a terrible pain in his chest, and he realizes he's dying._

 _A face appears above him. Sharp blue eyes bore into his own. **No,** James wants to shout. **This is a Roman rite! And it's not time yet!** But there's not enough air in his lungs to speak out loud._

 _The face comes closer -- the long nose, the ever-present stubble, the so-familiar features of the best (companion?) (master) he's ever had --_

 _Rough lips cover his own. His last breath eases out in a slow sigh and is caught by the man who kneels over him._

 _Gregorius._

***** 

"James. James, wake up!"

The slave shivered once and opened his eyes. The overseer Marcus Tullius was leaning over him, poking him in the biceps.

No long nose. No blue eyes. A dream, and he wasn't dying. But -- what was happening? Was something wrong with Gregorius? Real fear replaced the slow dream-reality.

"James. Gaius summons you."

* * *

"He calls for you," Gaius said flatly. "I tried to help him, but he thrust me aside and called for you."

James shook his head, trying to clear the last of the sleep-cobwebs. "I don't understand," he mumbled.

"His leg pains him. I prepared a remedy but he would not take it. Says no one but you can help him."

Torchlight flickered along the walls; the dancing shadows revealed both the hostility in Gaius's eyes and the concern on his face. It was obvious the loss of his wife and the sudden illness of his only son was affecting him more than he wanted to let on, perhaps even more than he suspected. He opened the door to Gregorius's room and allowed James to step inside.

The surgeon had thrown off his blankets and was lying atop the sheets with the rigidity of a wooden plank. One hand was wrapped tightly around the edge of the headboard, the straining knuckles white with effort. The other worked slowly at his thigh, trying to ease what was apparently the monstrous pain of a terrible cramp.

James cursed under his breath as he took a seat on the bedside. The sheets were soaked with sweat, and he resolutely ignored the clammy feeling of it seeping up into his tunic. He focused on Gregorius.

 _The lack of willow bark, the argument with his father before bed -- how long did he lie here, the agony growing, before he called out? Stubborn Roman!_

The surgeon groaned, an awful sound wrenched from deep within his chest. James smoothed his hair gently -- it was damp and clung to the physician's forehead in dark, curling whorls.

"Gregorius," James whispered. "I'm here, it's all right." He was pleased to see a tiny bit of the surgeon's tension ease at the sound of his voice.

"James?" Gregorius opened his eyes. They were wild and bright with pain.

"It's me, my lord." The slave continued to stroke the surgeon's forehead, his fingers gently carding through the physician's soaked hair.

"Dream," Gregorius croaked. "Bad dream. Called for you but you weren't here."

 _Had to have been a **very** bad dream,_ James thought. "I'm here now," he said. He left off stroking the surgeon's forehead and hiked up his tunic instead. The worst of the cramp had abated; still, James began a slow, flowing massage with his thumbs and the palms of both hands. "You must have felt this coming," he murmured. "You should have brewed a little willowbark tea this evening." He could feel the physician's muscles loosening, unknotting under his fingers, and his gaze fell upon the earthenware cup on the small night table. It was untouched, still brimming with a warm, dark liquid. "And why did you not accept your father's medicine?"

"Heh." Gregorius's forced laugh was rough and raspy. "I prefer your ... expertise. Besides, I have taken too much of my father's medicine over the years." He gasped at a fresh stab of pain and shifted a little under James's hands.

James sighed. "Gregorius," he muttered in exasperation. "You are ... "

Despite the pain, the surgeon opened one eye and waited.

" -- as God made you," James finished.

A corner of Gregorius's mouth quirked up in what might have been an attempt at a smile. "Yes," he murmured. "But which one?"

James choked back the laugh of relief that threatened to burst forth. "Do you think you can move?" he asked gruffly. "I will prepare a little juice of the poppy for you and change the bed linens while it brews."

The surgeon nodded. Drawing a deep breath, he sat up slowly and carefully, hissing a little at the residual pain. He swung his legs off the bed and winced.

"Here, this way," James said softly, and lowered his shoulders. After a moment he felt a warm, solid weight draped across them. He wondered briefly at the corresponding warmth in his own chest, then dismissed it in favor of the more pressing matter at hand. He grasped the surgeon's left wrist and used his legs and back to push up. James grunted with the effort; Gregorius was taller and heavier, but he quickly wrapped his right arm around the surgeon's ribs and brought them both to their feet safely. In a lurching, hobbled gait that reminded James of a pair of drunks clinging to each other, he managed to guide the physician to the one chair in the bedroom and help him sit down.

James crouched at Gregorius's feet and laid a soothing hand on his thigh. The surgeon's face was drawn with pain again and he could feel what was left of the quadriceps bunching and quivering under his palm.

"All right?" he asked. Gregorius muttered something under his breath, and James chose to interpret it as a "yes." "Rest," he commanded. "This will take but a moment." He turned to fetch the leather satchel of medical supplies, and was startled by a movement in the shadows.

Gaius was there in the doorway, his eyes narrowed and his face twisted in a grim scowl. It was obvious he had seen -- and heard -- everything.

James felt his gut clench, but he had gone too far to stop now. His first duty was to his patient.

While the tea brewed he stripped the bed and handed over the sweat-dampened sheets to the sleepy housemaid Gaius had had Marcus awaken. He poured a cup of the infusion, sweetened it with a little honey, and watched to make sure the surgeon had taken a healthy sip before he spread fresh, clean sheets on the bed. James tucked in the corners, smoothed out the wrinkles, and took a fresh pillow to replace the one that had become clammy and heavy with perspiration. He glanced back at Gregorius. The surgeon was watching him. His eyes were half-closed, the pupils dilated, only a thin ring of blue showing around the black.

"Come now, my lord," James said gently. "Let's get you sitting on the bed again and out of those sickclothes."

The return journey to the bed was more difficult. The poppy tea had taken a quick hold and the surgeon was almost a dead weight in James's arms. After a stumbling, clumsy dance, the physician was at last seated on the edge of his bed.

"Jaaames," Gregorius slurred.

"Mmmmm?" The surgeon's arms were limp at his sides; James was having trouble pulling his tunic over his head.

"We're walking in circles," Gregorius whispered, as if sharing a great secret.

James looked up, puzzled. "We're walking in -- oh. No, my lord, this is not Germania."

"But I'm cold."

"That's because I've taken your shirt off." James concentrated on gently wiping the other man down with a cool cloth, cleaning off the foul film of dried sweat. He ran the cloth down Gregorius's biceps, the back of his neck, the tops of his shoulders. He noted absently how much more developed the load-bearing muscles were on the surgeon's right side even as the damp cloth followed the strong line of his clavicle and sternum through the coarse, curling chest hair. Across the ribs, down the flat, lean stomach, a sweep back up to the armpits and --

"If we lay next to each other, close together, we could stay warm."

James froze. He didn't need to turn around to know that Gaius's furious eyes were burning holes into his back. He half-expected his tunic to burst into flames at any moment.

"We could spread my cloak over us, and then we would not freeze to death in this terrible place," Gregorius continued. His voice was bright and only a little slurred now.

 _It is the poppy tea,_ James thought desperately. _Its effect is more pronounced under stress._ He pinched the bridge of his nose and closed his eyes for a moment.

"My lord, this is not Germania," he repeated. He dared not look to see if Gaius was still there.

"I _know_ that," Gregorius snapped. His voice lowered to a whisper only the two of them could hear. "But still I wish for you to stay." He raised his head, and his voice grew loud again for Gaius's benefit. "You are my physician tonight, and a good physician watches over his patient."

"Gregorius ... " James groaned.

The surgeon's hands clasped his own. "Stay." He hesitated. "I do not want to be lost and buried here."

James groaned again. Gregorius might know he was not in the wild Germanic forests, but he was still under the influence of the poppy. _What choice do I have?_ he thought. He chanced a look behind him at the doorway. Gaius had vanished, perhaps to fume somewhere else. The surgeon seized the opportunity to ease himself back down onto the bed, pulling the covers over his bare chest.

"My lord, your tunic -- " James began, but Gregorius ignored him.

"Very well, my lord," he sighed. _He probably won't remember half of this in the morning._

James turned and laid himself awkwardly down beside him. Gregorius slid over to make room, and James's eyes closed immediately. All at once he realized how exhausted he was.

The last thing he knew was Gregorius's left arm stretching across his chest and a strong grip on his shoulder pulling him close.

 _What Longinus said,_ he thought as he spiraled down into welcome slumber -- _bro ..._

And he was asleep.

* * *

James awoke to the smell of baking bread and the sound of men shouting. He started to stretch and realized he was alone in a nest of warm blankets. Someone had placed a soft pillow under his head, and he rubbed at his eyes, listening all the while as the _Medicus_ and his father yelled at each other.

"He is _not_ going with you; he is staying here!"

"I _need_ him in the field!"

"You have just said all you will be doing is _collecting plants!"_ James grimaced; the tone of Gaius's voice told him exactly how important he considered that activity. "You do not need him to help you _pick flowers!"_

 _I should get up,_ James thought dully. _I should go and try to calm Gregorius down._ He got wearily to his feet. _There are many things I should do._

"Besides," Gaius continued, "I need him here. My best milk cow is in distress with her calf."

"He is a _trained physician!_ He is not a _veterinarius!"_

"He is what I say he is." Gaius's voice was flat and as cold as the dark forests of Germania. "And what I say is law."

A door slammed, so loudly that the crash resounded throughout the villa. _And ... Gregorius has left,_ James thought. Resigned, he pulled at his tunic, straightening it into a semblance of order. _Yes, that went well._

* * *

By the time James got there, the kitchen was empty save for a lone scullery maid. She was blonde, with pale blue eyes, and her Latin was correct but strangely accented. Nodding to him, she served him a bowl of breakfast porridge, scooped from what was left in the pot still bubbling over the hearth. She flavored it with a drizzle of honey from the flask on the kitchen table and poured in a generous splash of fresh milk. The maid smiled at him, and James smiled back, grateful to see at least one friendly face this morning. She seemed shy of him, and he wondered what she had thought of her master and his son's angry shouting in her clean, serene kitchen. He opened his mouth to ask her, but then thought better of it and took a spoonful of porridge instead.

The porridge was good. Thick and flavorful, mixed with chopped nuts and the milk and honey, it was filling and warmed him from the inside out. He ate slowly, savoring each mouthful while the maid bustled about the kitchen. When he was done he thanked her, and hid a grin as she turned red. He guessed she was rather unused to anyone saying "thank you."

He stood and stretched, and looked more closely at his surroundings.

The _culina_ was larger than most he'd seen, airy and well-lit with good ventilation from the open window nearby. A selection of iron frying pans hung from hooks next to the hearth, and on the other side ... a shadowed niche. James stepped closer to get a better look.

It was the household shrine, sheltering the small statues of the household gods. James looked at them, bemused. He wondered if Gregorius had paid them their homage due last night, or if he had ignored them as he so often ignored all trappings of religion. The little statues stared back at him, the _lar_ holding a drinking horn, another of the gods offering a libation bowl and cornucopia. Their expressions gave nothing away. A leather thong had been wound about the shoulders of the _penates_ , and at its end was a golden locket -- a _bulla_ , the protecting amulet that would have been placed around the surgeon's neck when he was but nine days old.

An amulet the _Medicus_ would have worn until he was sixteen, when he took off his youthful robes and put on the white toga of a man.

James pictured the scene in his mind -- the young Gregorius, as tall and gawky as an Egyptian stork, lifting the amulet from his neck and dedicating it to the gods as family guests clapped him on the back and congratulated him. Afterwards he would have been registered at the local records office as an adult.

A citizen of Rome.

He wondered briefly what was inside the _bulla_. It could be anything -- a bit of carved bone, a miniature sword, a tiny protecting hand. Since it had belonged to a boy, it could even be that timeless symbol of male power -- a phallus.

"Excuse me, sir," a soft voice said, and James looked up, startled.

It was the scullery maid, making ready to sweep the flagstone floor with a broom of fresh straw.

James nodded and stepped outside. The villa itself was quiet, with most of the workers in the fields. He started towards the barn and flinched when one of the farm dogs suddenly appeared. The huge, shaggy animal barked at him once and then drew close, wanting to smell his new scent. Then it huffed and danced about in a canine paroxysm of delight. James grinned.

"Good boy," he said softly, rubbing the dog's head. The animal's tongue lolled out and a veritable flood of drool spilled from its jaws. "You are like my Ari, you know that?" The dog made a snorting, slurping sound at the name of James's boyhood companion. "Come on," James said. "Let's get my sketchbook from the barn."

The barn, like the villa, was quiet. The farm dog had bounded off and James had crouched to fetch his loose-bound notebook from his pack when he heard an unusual sound.

"There, there," a voice said gently. "All will be well, do not fret."

He looked up. The sound was coming from a few stalls away, and he crept closer.

It was Gaius.

"Shush, shush," the Roman said, stroking the long face of the brindled milk cow. "It is all right -- your calf will come and everything will be fine."

James stared. Gaius had one arm around the neck of the cow; his other embraced its head and his fingers scratched lightly at its ears. "Shhhh," he whispered. "She's gone now, you know."

The cow lowed softly and James backed quickly away. He grasped his notebook, then, acting on a hurried impulse, gathered up the rest of his pack and retreated back towards the kitchen.

* * *

"You're needed," a gruff voice announced, and James looked up in surprise. He had been drawing, refining some earlier sketches of medicinal herbs. The tiny notches of a mint leaf had commanded his particular attention, and his concentration had been such that he hadn't heard the stablehand come into the kitchen.

"You're needed," the man said again. "The cow's worsened, and the master says he will take whatever help he can get."

Silently, James laid down the reed pen he'd been using and followed the stablehand outside.

That morning the barn had smelled of hay and fresh alfalfa, and the early sunlight had slanted through the open door in golden beams across the floor. Now the brindle cow's stall floor was slick with liquids that weren't water, and the air reeked of blood and animal panic. Both of the barn doors had been flung open in an attempt to provide a freshening cross-breeze. The cow herself was no longer lowing softly -- she was moaning, her head swinging from side to side in desperate unhappiness. Four stablemen were pushing at her withers, trying to chivvy her into a different position as Gaius watched, his expression grim. He looked up and spotted James.

"Get over here," he snapped.

* * *

  
[Part Two](http://nightdog-writes.livejournal.com/22557.html#cutid1)


	2. Chapter 2

**TITLE:** The Annals: Part 4.2 of An Irregular Series   
**AUTHOR:**

Complete header is in Part 4.1.  
This section: 5,935 words.

[Part One](http://nightdog-barks.livejournal.com/816570.html#cutid1)

 

**_Part Two_ **

 

_The only good thing about having my arm up the ass end of a cow,_ James thought grimly as he twisted his left hand a fraction to the right, _is that it's warm._

He strained forward. The brindle cow's pelvic muscles squeezed tight, momentarily trapping his forearm in a vise grip that made him wince. His arm was hot and slick, but the rest of him was freezing. The stablehands kept dousing the cow's rear, the floor, and by default James with buckets of water so that despite the heat of the day and the warmth of the barn, his teeth were chattering. The cow was bawling, the stablemen were shouting, and through it all he felt Gaius's remorseless eyes on him.

James's foot slipped on the wet floor. He cursed and grabbed the cow's tail to keep from wrenching his arm around and hurting the animal.

"Careful!" Gaius snapped. 

The contraction passed, and James worked his arm in just a little deeper. Slowly, he uncurled his fist and felt around. The cow's vaginal walls were slick and smooth. Occasionally they seemed to ripple with motion like the waves of some primal sea; whenever that happened, the cow would toss her head and let out a long, disconsolate bellow.

He touched a ring of taut muscle -- she was dilated, so it must be something else that was wrong. He inched his fingers forward.

There. Something different, something not like the yielding muscles. Something harder ...

James closed his hand around the different thing. There was a division, a cleft -- it was a hoof. Front leg or back, though, was anyone's guess.

He tugged gently. The hoof slipped out of his grasp, and he cursed again.

"Have you got it?" Gaius demanded.

"I'm trying, my lord," James muttered. He racked his brain, trying to remember what he had heard the veterinaries discuss in the legion's camps when they were presented with a risky procedure. He wrapped his fingers more tightly around the tiny hoof, but it was no good; it was like trying to extract an eel from an ocean of jelly -- the little mite kept squirting free from his grasp. The calf kicked at him. The mother bawled.

_A fighter,_ James thought. _You may have a chance yet._

He braced himself and pulled his arm out. It came free with a wet _pop!_ and a long ropy string of slime. Wisps of steam curled into the air. 

"I need a chain," James said. "A _thin_ chain."

The stablemen stared at him.

"A chain will not slip," James explained, wiping down his arm. "If I can tighten a loop around the calf's fetlock or head, I can try and draw it out of the womb."

"Won't that break the calf's leg?" one of the men asked. He rubbed at his chin, clearly doubtful of James's intent.

"No, I've seen it done," another stablehand said. "The bones bend like the branches of a young sapling."

"But you've never done it yourself." From Gaius's tone, it was a statement instead of a question.

"My lord, I have not," James replied honestly. "But there is nothing else to do."

James could see the old Roman considering, calculating the risks. At last he nodded, a short, sharp jerk of his head.

* * *

James had lost track of time. 

He was hungry and exhausted, his left arm and shoulder ached, and his entire world had tapered down to a narrow view of the hindquarters of a cow. The cow shifted again, taking a sideways step, and James grunted as he stepped with her. He seemed to have lost the tiny hoof he'd had before, and he wondered briefly if the calf had somehow managed to turn front to back in the womb, somersaulting like the lithe athletes he had seen in wrestling exhibitions. He couldn't feel _anything_ familiar, and his fingers were growing numb from the constant pressure of the animal's contractions. Frustrated, he pulled his arm free again.

"What are you doing?" Gaius shouted. "You have the chain -- keep on!"

"My lord," James panted out. "Just a moment." He flexed his arm, grimacing at the pain in his elbow.

"The cow cannot take much more! Get back to work!" 

"Wait!" It was the stablehand nearest the animal's head. "She's loose!" The cow had flung her head back, pulling the halter rope out of his hands before he could react. The man grabbed at the cow's muzzle, trying to catch her nose ring, but it was too late. The cow let out a resounding, rising bellow and wheeled around in her stall, attempting to get at her tormentors. James's world tilted as she swung her head and butted him hard, catching the slave directly under his ribs and slamming him into the wall before whirling about again.

" _AH!_ " James gasped. He bent over, clutching at his sides. Black dots swam before his eyes, and he was vaguely aware of the stablehands slipping and sliding as they tried to regain control of the unwieldy animal. The cow grunted, the men cursed, and above it all he could hear Gaius calling out, "Don't hurt her! Don't hurt her!"

At last the cow was still, her sides heaving, and James straightened slowly.

Gaius was beside him, thrusting the length of chain back in his left hand.

"Again," he ordered. His voice was low and hoarse, his eyes dark with rage. "And get it right this time."

* * *

The calf wasn't coming.

After another session of feeling around inside the cow, James managed to relocate a hoof. He worked the noose around it, cinched it tight, and began to pull the chain, exerting a slow, gentle pressure.

At first the calf moved, and James's spirit lifted. After that, though, it seemed frozen in position, and no amount of tugging would shift it again. One of the stablemen put his hands on the chain, and added his muscles to the contest, but even their combined efforts had no effect.

"Perhaps if we put her on her side, my lord," one of the stablehands suggested cautiously. "She could rest -- "

"No." Gaius's answer was curt. "She can do this." He crossed his arms and glared at the slave. "It is her nature, as it is the natural order of some to command and some to serve." 

The cow's head was down. She was breathing hard and drooling on the floor.

"Pull harder!" Gaius snarled.

"My lord, if we pull any harder we will tear the calf's leg off," James panted.

"Then do it!"

James's grip faltered, and he stared at the Roman. The stablehands pressed closer to the cow, keeping their eyes on her and the ground.

"My lord -- "

"If that is what it takes to save the mother, then do it." Gaius set his jaw. "Dismember the calf and get it out."

James shook his head. "There is still a chance we can save both of them," he said. "It does not have to be this way."

Gaius took a step forward.

"Are you disobeying me, slave?" he asked. "Do you not know your rightful master?" His voice was very soft, and James swallowed.

"No, my lord," he said, willing his own voice not to shake. "It is only ... "

_Stop talking_ , James thought. _Stop talking and do something._

He shoved back inside the cow, feeling the chain links along the length of his forearm.

" _Stop!_ " Gaius roared. "I ordered you to _pull!_ "

The loop was still around the calf's fetlock. James fumbled, pushing deeper, searching for any clues as to the baby's position.

A small opening of some kind; James's forefinger slid in. Some small appendage there, moving on its own. Touching -- tasting -- his finger.

His hand was in the calf's mouth. The baby was licking him.

The sounds around him seemed to die away. James pulled his hand back; the calf stretched its neck, trying to follow. He closed his eyes, felt for the baby's shoulder, and shoved up with all his strength.

The calf's upper body shifted and seemed to unfold.

James yanked his arm out and hauled back on the chain.

"Now!" he yelled. "Come on, little one! _Now!_ "

Other hands were on the links, pulling with him. The first hoof appeared, then a stick-thin length of leg. Then the other hoof, and a small nose, covered with slick wet fur. And then the entire calf slid out, emerging with an explosion of suction letting go and a gush of liquids.

James stumbled backward, almost falling at the sudden release in tension. He crouched quickly beside the newborn calf, swabbing its nostrils and mouth free of mucus as it struggled to breathe in the alien air. It was all legs, kicking feebly and trying to raise its head. 

Momentarily forgotten, the mother cow lowed again. It was a rolling, piteous sound.

"Oh, by the gods," one of the stablemen murmured. James looked up.

A large mass of solid tissue had followed the calf out of the cow's body. It was dark pink, with three raised, angry red spots on the surface. A steady trickle of bright red blood was flowing from it, forming a growing puddle on the floor.

As James and the others watched, the cow's hind legs began to quiver. She sank down on her haunches, settling slowly like a deflating leather wine cask. Her front legs gave way, and she sighed heavily, rolling onto her side. The blood continued to flow.

The calf clambered to its feet and stood tottering on unsteady legs. It peered around the stall, then bleated softly, with a rising, question-like intonation at the end.

James stood, too, suddenly exhausted beyond measure.

The calf took an uncertain step forward. It lowered its head and nuzzled at its mother.

It bleated again.

"Save her," Gaius ordered. "Save the mother." His voice was low and hoarse, and his lined face had gone pale in the half-light of the suddenly quiet barn.

James shook his head. "My lord," he said, "there is nothing anyone can do. The mother is hemorrhaging -- bleeding from the inside."

Gaius didn't move. His eyes were still fixed on the downed cow, whose sides were laboring like a smith's bellows. Her mouth was open, her tongue limp on the wet barn floor. Low wheezes whistled in her throat. The calf, still unsteady on wobbly legs, continued to make lost, bleating sounds. It nuzzled at James's hand, and he gave it his little finger to suckle at.

"This small one should live," he said, watching the calf's lips work and feeling the pull as it tried to draw first-milk. "Is there another new calf in the field? If that mother will not allow this one to nurse at her tit, you can gather her milk in a leather canteen and -- "

"You killed her," Gaius said.

James blinked. "My lord?"

The big stablemen shuffled their feet. One of them touched the dying animal gently on her neck with his toe.

"You disobeyed me. I instructed you to save her, and instead you killed her." 

"My lord," James began again, "there was nothing -- "

"You are no healer," Gaius said. He turned at last, and looked at James. "It is obvious my son has made yet another poor choice. I must prevent him from making any more, especially with a foreign slave who does not know his place."

James blinked. 

"Lord," he began slowly, "perhaps your grief -- "

"Do not speak to me of grief," Gaius snarled. " _Do not speak to me of **grief!**_ " He calmed then, seeming to draw on some resource of iron will deep within. "You know nothing of grief."

He nodded to two of the burliest stablemen. "Take him outside and bind his arms to the horse rail."

James took a step back, but there was nowhere to run. The stablemen who had been helping him just a moment ago grabbed his arms and twisted them roughly behind his back, then hustled him outside into the bright sunlight. 

Exhausted from the long struggle of the calf's birth, James was numb as he was forced to his knees and held there, his back to the horse rail. It was a little higher than his head, and he grunted as his arms were pulled out and up and his wrists tied to the long crossbar. More lengths of rope were looped around his biceps and shoulders and yanked tight, pulling James off his knees so that all his weight was suspended from his shoulders. He was vaguely aware of someone behind him, tying his ankles together. When the stablemen stepped back, James hung helplessly from the long crossbar, already feeling the strain in his ribs and shoulder muscles. His left shoulder burned as if a red-hot coal had been jabbed into the joint with an icepick. He tugged awkwardly at his bonds, but the stablemen were obviously used to tying strong knots. 

_They are accustomed to tying up their fellow slaves also,_ James thought. His mouth was dry. He had been punished in his first days of captivity, but with only a few strokes of the lash, and while his former master had been a brute, the man had preferred to use his fists on his property. He pulled at his tethers again, but the men had drawn the ropes taut, and the rough cords burned against his skin. His left shoulder throbbed indignantly. 

Gaius approached and glanced at the bound slave. The Roman stood cold and dispassionate. James grew deeply afraid.

"Fetch the gelding knife," Gaius commanded.

One of the stableboys ran to obey.

"My lord," James whispered.

Gaius ignored him.

"Please, my lord." The slave pressed his knees together. "My lord, mercy, please."

The stableboy returned with the knife and handed it to Gaius. James stared as it caught the sun and seemed to glitter wickedly at him -- the blade was honed razor-sharp and viciously curved.

_One cut,_ James thought. _One cut, and I will be both slave and eunuch._

Gaius started towards him. James began to struggle in earnest.

"Please, no, my lord." His voice was unsteady; he tried to curl in on himself but the ropes held him upright. "Mercy, I beg of you."

Gaius halted directly in front of James. The slave bowed his head.

"Please," he whispered. "Master."

Gaius chuckled. It was a dry sound, like the rustle of dead leaves in the wind.

"You think I mean to take your balls," he said. The knife gleamed as the Roman turned its haft idly in his right hand. "No. Although that would be fitting, it is your disrespectful tongue I want -- the tongue that falsely claimed the power to heal, that proposed a doomed solution that killed my cow."

Gaius drew closer, and a glint of the light's reflection from the knife was blinding. "The tongue that pours honeyed words into my son's ears, just as you pour poppy elixir down his throat."

"Hold his head and get his mouth open," Gaius snapped.

James gasped as a strong hand fisted itself in his hair and yanked his head up. A forearm snaked across his throat and held him tight as another pair of hands pried his jaws open. He tried to buck, to jerk his head free, but the stablemen, used to dealing with recalcitrant livestock, held him easily. He grunted as a thick wooden dowel like a horse's bit was inserted lengthwise into his mouth to keep it open.

"Good," Gaius said. "Now hold him still."

James whined deep in his throat. He struggled desperately. The stranglehold around his neck tightened, as did the relentless grip of the other hands. He tried to push the dowel out, but the stableboy shoved it back in, this time under the slave's tongue. He watched in helpless terror as Gaius slipped a leather glove onto his left hand. Then the gloved hand was reaching for him, reaching into his mouth even as the slave panted for breath and strained frantically to free himself. A strong thumb and forefinger pinched the meat of his tongue between them, squeezing and pulling the muscle taut.

The slave tried to scream, but all that came out was a garbled wail.

"Hold still," Gaius grumbled. And then the knife was in his mouth, the blade, the sharp tang of whetted steel.

James braced himself for the cut, for the explosion of agonizing pain as his tongue was severed.

_"What is going on here?"_

The hand wielding the knife jerked, and James tasted iron. Gaius straightened and turned away to face his furious son. The knife went with him but the other slaves' grip on James's head did not ease.

James moaned -- how deeply had the blade cut? There was only a little blood in his mouth, and he could still feel the wooden dowel ...

"By all the gods you believe in, Father, _what are you doing?"_ Gregorius's voice was low and venomous, but the surgeon's father blocked James's view so that the slave could not see his face. "I leave to gather medicinal herbs, and when I return it is to find you _butchering my assistant!"_

"I am not _butchering him,"_ Gaius growled. "I am punishing a slave. I am fully within my rights and you know it."

"If you're not butchering him, then why is he covered in blood?" Gregorius tried to step around his father, but Gaius matched his move and set his chin in a mulish tilt. 

"He disobeyed a direct order. A valuable cow is dying."

"A valuable ... a _cow?_ " Gregorius cursed savagely under his breath. "Father. You are retired. A private citizen. James is the property of the Army, and as such is _my_ responsibility." He craned his head, looking over Gaius's shoulder. "You!" he barked. "Let him go! _Now!"_

James drew in a long, trembling breath as the other slaves loosened their grip and the chokehold eased. He bowed his head again and rolled his jaw, managing at last to work the wooden dowel free. A gobbet of bloody spit came with it, and he heard Gregorius curse again. He pressed his tongue to the roof of his mouth in an attempt to discover how much of it was missing. Then the surgeon was crouching in front of him, his worried eyes searching the slave's body for signs of injury. 

"James." His voice was very gentle now. "Are you hurt? Can you open your mouth?"

"Not hurt," the slave whispered, noting in dazed detachment that he had begun to shiver uncontrollably. He opened his mouth slowly, wincing -- his jaw ached fiercely from the strain of being held open. "Cow's blood."

"Not _all_ cow's blood," the surgeon replied darkly as he poked and probed inside James's mouth. He glanced up at the stable slaves, still stolidly arrayed behind the horse rail. "Untie him," he commanded.

"No!" Gaius's counter-order rang out. The stableboy, who had started to move forward, stepped back immediately. 

The surgeon twisted around. He glared at his father. _"Untie him."_

Gaius crossed his arms in front of his chest. "The punishment will continue as I have decreed," he said. His tone was maddeningly calm. The blade of the gelding knife winked in the sun.

Sourness rose in James's belly, and he lowered his head and swallowed convulsively to try and quell the sickness that threatened to overwhelm him. His hands were freezing. He wasn't sure if it was from his own panic or lack of circulation from the tightness of the ropes still holding him. More blood ran down his throat; he gagged and spat again.

The surgeon stood back up, slowly, using his staff as support.

"I will not allow this," he said. 

"You cannot stop it."

Gregorius moved quickly, crossing the space between himself and Gaius in two swift strides.

"I can and I will," he said, and took the gelding knife from his father's hand.

"Gregorius."

The razor-sharp knife sliced cleanly through the ropes. James's left arm, freed, fell limply to his side.

"Gregorius," Gaius said again. "If you do this, you are no son of mine."

The surgeon hesitated, but just for a moment. He cut the ropes holding the slave's right arm.

"Climb out of your hole, Father," he said softly, "and see the truth. I never was." He caught James as he slumped towards the ground.

The slave watched as Gaius shook his head. "You accuse me of blindness, but it is you who cannot see what this slave has done to you." His voice grew louder and more intense as Gregorius sliced through the bonds around James's ankles.

"He has made you weak and deluded, made you dependent on relief from _his_ hand, and no one else's."

"The relief I _need_ because I followed your wishes," the surgeon murmured, not looking up.

" _No!_ " Gaius barked. "If you had followed my wishes you would have had a sword in your hand, leading a cohort! You chose a different path -- a path of _weakness!_ "

Gregorius ignored his father. "Can you stand up?" he asked.

"Yes," James replied softly. "I think so."

Gaius had moved closer. His shadow fell directly onto his crouching son.

"What other _weakness_ do you indulge in now?"

"Father -- "

"He calls you by name. He medicates you. He _touches_ you. He _shares your tent._ " Gaius's voice broke. "Does he take you to _his bed?_ "

The surgeon's hand tightened on James's shoulder as he looked up at last.

"Is that it, Father? Is that it, finally?" The grip loosened. "You worry that a slave has stolen your son's heart, just as my mother stole yours?"

Gregorius levered himself carefully to his feet, then extended a hand for James to grasp. The slave pulled himself up, then bent over again and braced his hands on his knees as another wave of nausea washed over him.

"It is not right," Gaius whispered. "The slave is not the master."

"Those of us who are free," Gregorius said quietly, "choose our own masters. And our friends." 

The wind sighed in the trees, carrying the faint sound of wailing. It was coming from the barn.

Gregorius tossed the gelding knife into the dirt.

"Go, Father," he said. "Go tend to the small life that still has a chance."

* * *

It was a silent, somber leavetaking.

Gaius stared at the knife for a long moment, then turned on his heel and walked away, disappearing into the barn. The stablehands drifted after him.

Gregorius and James gathered their belongings and stuffed them back into the packs from which they had so recently been liberated. The surgeon's gruff order to fetch their horses was instantly obeyed, and as they swung into their saddles, James saw Gregorius cast a lingering look at the barn.

Gaius had not re-emerged. All was quiet, and the surgeon touched the flanks of his horse with his heels, urging the chestnut mare into a trot. He didn't look back again. 

They rode out the same way they had ridden in -- under withered cypress boughs, disintegrating now in the freshening breeze that heralded the last of the afternoon's heat.

* * *

James shifted in his saddle. They'd been riding for many leagues, the shadows growing longer and longer as the sun neared the horizon. He ached all over. He felt filthy -- he _was_ filthy -- and he wanted desperately to wash, to cleanse himself of the blood and grime that still caked his body. Gregorius, however, did not seem to notice James's discomfort. He kept his silence, wrapping himself in it like a favored cloak, and James was reluctant to disturb him.

At last they came to a small copse, and James cleared his throat, softly at first, and then more loudly.

"My lord," he said. "My lord, perhaps this would be a good place to stop for the night."

Gregorius pulled the chestnut mare to a halt. He looked around as if in a daze.

"The woods provide shelter," James continued, careful to speak in the normal tones of everyday conversation, "and fuel for a campfire." Gregorius appeared to be listening, a good sign. "I hear a stream nearby," the slave said. "We could wash ourselves and be refreshed."

"Yes," the surgeon mumbled. "Yes, we should ... stop. For now." He took a deep breath and shook himself as if awakening from a dream, then slid from his saddle to the ground. James dismounted quickly, ready to support him, but Gregorius waved him away.

"Go ahead," he said. "I will be along in a moment."

James eyed him, but the surgeon was alert and surveying their surroundings with a critical eye, so the slave retrieved a set of clean clothes from his pack and headed for the stream.

His ears had not deceived him. The rushing brook gurgled and sang through the small rapids, and the water was deep enough to wade in up to his thighs. He stripped, tossing his blood- and dirt-encrusted tunic on the bank, and hissed in a sharp breath between his teeth as he stepped into the cold water.

He bathed quickly, scrubbing at his body with coarse river sand, dunking his head again and again until his hair was washed clean of the reek of death. A dark red river rock, polished smooth and wet, caught his eye. James's stomach rose at the sight, and he turned away and hawked and spat into the water. The spit was clear, and he splashed more water into his mouth and swirled it around with his tongue.

_My tongue,_ he thought, _that I still have._

He fought down the urge to laugh, afraid that if he started he might not be able to stop. He spat again and scrubbed a little more, leaving off only when his skin began to burn. James emerged from the stream shivering and dressed as quickly as he could. Scraping at the loose soil on the bank with a long stick, he managed to dig a shallow hole and buried his ruined clothing in it. He stacked a few rocks on top to deter the smaller animals who might pass here during the night.

Gregorius had built a fire and was feeding it dry, fallen branches when James returned. The horses were tethered nearby; the surgeon had removed the saddles from the mare and pony and the bundled pack from the bay. Their tails switched, flicking idly at some tiny flying insects. It was a scene of peace and contentment. James suddenly felt light-headed. He stumbled, and found himself taking a hard, unexpected seat on the ground.

"James!" The surgeon was beside him, his eyes dark with fear as he ran his hands over the slave's shoulders. "I should have checked you more closely ... " He gripped James's biceps, still muttering frantically. "Take off your tunic and let me see ... "

James sat, unresisting, as Gregorius peeled the still-damp tunic from his body. He heard the surgeon's sharp intake of breath, and looked down.

His left arm was bruised, discolored from the tips of his fingers to well above his elbow. Probing fingers prodded gently at his torso, and now James saw for the first time the sprawling hematoma left by the cow's butting head. It wasn't just blue -- the broken blood vessels had left the skin black and green and red. James swallowed, feeling sick again. 

"How did this happen?" Gregorius inquired hoarsely. "Were you beaten?"

"It was the cow," James whispered. "She was frightened, and lashed out."

The surgeon's face was grim as he continued to feel for cracked or broken ribs. "And what did my father do?"

"He ... ordered me to try again." James smiled ruefully. "To get it right this time."

Gregorius's expression tightened.

"When I was a boy," he murmured, "he would make me run until I dropped, and then drench me with cold water and tell me to run the course again. Lie back."

James settled back slowly, his abused muscles protesting every move. The grass was soft against his skin, and he could feel dirt clods under his back and shoulders. The surgeon's face appeared above him, and he blinked. This was all oddly familiar, and he struggled to recall the memory.

"I should not have taken you with me," Gregorius said. "I am no longer a rebellious boy -- it was foolish to challenge him so." His hands continued to move, stroking lightly along James's belly and up his chest, following the spreading, symmetrical lines of his clavicle. James allowed himself to relax under the gentle touch. His breathing evened out, and he closed his eyes.

"I go where I am commanded," he mumbled. "I am a slave. It does not matter."

The surgeon's hands stilled.

"It matters," Gregorius said. "Rest now. I will prepare dinner."

After dinner, a stew of dried meat and wild onions, the surgeon brewed an infusion of white willow bark which the two men shared, sipping in turn from the thick earthenware cup. Afterwards they wrapped themselves in their bedrolls, pulling the blankets to their chins and using smaller, folded coverlets as rough pillows.

They lay close together, for the woods were cool at night, and if James dreamed of a Roman's lips covering his own, he did not remember it in the morning.

* * *

_ One Month Later _

The Army had moved north again, and it was a cool, cloudy day when Longinus paid a visit, a scroll case clutched in his right hand. James nodded a greeting to the centurion.

"Something for you -- " Longinus began, then stopped dead just inside the surgeon's tent. "What are you _doing?_ "

Gregorius glanced up, then directed his attention back to the musical instrument balanced on his right knee.

"Give it to James," he said. "I'll look at it later."

"I think you will want to look at this now," Longinus replied. "It's from your father. And I'll repeat the question -- _what are you doing?_ "

"What does it look like I'm doing?" Gregorius strummed three of the instrument's strings. They twanged loudly, the discordant sound reverberating throughout the tent. James winced, trying to concentrate on compounding the formula before him. The surgeon had been experimenting all afternoon, alternately tightening and loosening the catgut to see what tone they produced.

"I do not know," the centurion replied. "But it _sounds_ as though you're strangling a braying donkey with your bare hands."

Gregorius's lips quirked upward. "I don't think I have ever heard the music of the noble _kithara_ described in quite that manner."

"You inspire me to new heights of oratory," Longinus said dryly. "Where did you get that thing? The last time I checked, the cohort bandsmen were only issued drums and trumpets."

The surgeon tried plucking one of the strings. It made a quavering, wavering wail, reminding James of a sick cat.

"Fair trade. A troupe of traveling musicians got into a brawl at one of the taverns in town, and one of them cut up his hand grabbing the wrong end of a knife. I stitched it back together. He gave me this."

"He gave you his livelihood?" Longinus's freckled face wrinkled. 

"Well, it wasn't as if he would be playing it for a while."

"I suppose not," the centurion reflected. He cleared his throat. "As I was saying, there's something -- "

"I heard you. And who it was from." Gregorius rubbed one thumb on the _kithara's_ varnished wooden frame. "I'm not going back there."

The centurion shook his head. It was drizzling outside, and a few droplets of rain had caught on the horsehair crest of his helmet. 

"Do you think I would ask you to do that? None of us could have predicted what happened." He glanced at James. "I've said I am sorry, and I meant it."

Gregorius leaned back in his chair and set the _kithara_ on the ground. He scrubbed a hand over his face.

"I know," he said. "Here, let's get it over with. See what my vigilant father wishes to scold me about this time."

Longinus handed over the case. The surgeon broke the wax seal and tipped out the rolled papyrus. He scanned it quickly, then laid it aside and frowned at a thin chip of clamshell lying on his desk. "Maybe if I used the plectrum ... " 

James and Longinus looked at each other.

"Well?" the centurion demanded.

"Hm?" Gregorius grunted as he picked up the _kithara_ again. "Perhaps if both of these strings were ratcheted up a notch ... " he mumbled.

"What did your father say?"

The surgeon didn't look up.

"That I was disinherited," he said. He strummed the instrument again, a look of intense concentration on his face. With a resounding _snap!_ , one of the strings broke.

* * *

"It's got to be here somewhere," the surgeon grumbled. "Are you sure you looked in all the drawers?"

"Yes, my lord," James answered wearily. " _And_ in the medical chest, _and_ in all the saddlebags, _and_ in the -- "

"Fine, fine." Gregorius blew out a long breath between his lips. "If _I_ were the thinnest strand of beaten bronze wire in a _Medicus_ 's possesion, where would I hide?"

"My lord ... "

The surgeon raised a cautionary finger.

"Gregorius," James amended. "We have been looking for this particular spool all night. The sun will be up soon, and you don't even know if this will work." He sighed. "Are you sure this experiment is all you're concerned with? That there's nothing else you -- "

"Want to talk about? No. The disinheritance was a simple formality, the logical conclusion of something that has been in process for a long, _long_ time. The subject is now closed. Forever."

He looked around thoughtfully. "I'm positive that if I can replace these gut strings with wire, the sound will be much fuller." He turned in a slow circle, then pointed. "Look in my personal chest," he commanded. "I'll search behind the scroll case."

James rolled his eyes but bent to his task, swinging the top back on its hinges. Gregorius continued to mutter in the background as James began to lift out the chest's contents.

A folded cloak. An old belt buckle. A rumpled tunic, on top of a single leather sandal. An astrolabe, its moving parts frozen in rust. A set of the surgeon's hand-colored playing cards. More old clothes.

James swiped his forearm across his eyes. There were no rolls of bronze wire here, and he was about to replace everything and close the chest when his fingers brushed against the soft leather cover of a notebook. He hesitated, then picked it up.

It was Gregorius's old field book, the small volume that he had used to jot down weather observations, nature sketches, ideas for experiments, and whatever else came to his fertile mind.

He had put it away after they had come back from his father's villa, and started a new one.

James looked up; the surgeon was still engrossed in whatever he was finding behind the scroll case, and all James could see of him was one leg sticking out. He took a breath and opened the book. 

_Sunny. Hot._

The words, in the surgeon's neat, precise hand, leapt up at him. But those were the only words on the page. James turned to the next one.

A drawing of a tall green plant, sprays of purple flowers rising from its top. Spikenard. Lavender, the Roman had called it.

On the next page there was a casual sketch of a dog, and James recognized the farm pup that had reminded him of Ari. The date at the top of the page was that of when they had first arrived at the villa.

More pages, and more sketches -- of plants, of the roan pony's left ear, of the villa itself. One whole page was taken up with charts of the night sky, the constellations inked out in careful lines. James turned another page, and gasped softly as something very small fluttered out. He picked it up.

It was an apple leaf. The date showed that Gregorius had pressed it between the pages of the field book on the last day. What had he said?

_I am going to collect medicinal herbs._

James swallowed. He replaced the leaf carefully, setting it back in the shadow-mark it had left on the paper, and closed the book.

"James!" The surgeon was backing out from behind the scroll case. He sounded excited.

James quickly tucked the notebook back into the chest and piled clothes on top of it. "Yes, Gregorius?" He shut the chest and pushed it away.

"I've found it! The wire had fallen behind the case -- let's get started!"

James felt the beginnings of a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth.

"Yes," he agreed. "Let's get started."

And he stood, and walked toward his friend.


	3. </b>  The Annals:  Part 4.3 of An Irregular Series

_**Housefic: The Annals: Part Four of An Irregular Series (3/3)**_  
**STATUS:** Crossposted to [](http://house-wilson.livejournal.com/profile)[](http://house-wilson.livejournal.com/)**house_wilson** 2/2/2008.  
**TITLE:** The Annals: Part 4.3 of An Irregular Series  
**AUTHOR:** [](http://nightdog-writes.livejournal.com/profile)[**nightdog_writes**](http://nightdog-writes.livejournal.com/)

Complete header is in Part 4.1.  
This section: 446 words.

[Part Two](http://nightdog-writes.livejournal.com/22557.html#cutid1)

  
__  
**Epilogue**  


  
Gregorius rolls over and pulls his blanket tighter about him. The nights are getting longer and colder as the season turns, and it's especially chilly out here in the open.

He and James have gathered enough herbs for this trip, and the surgeon is looking forward to the warm furs of his own bed.

These are unsettled days for the Legion. Rumors swirl of another transfer, far from the settled fields of Gallia or Hispania. Some speak of Pannonia, or even farther east, to Armenia. Others whisper of the south, of Mauretania or Egypt, perhaps even Judea, still restless in the chains that bind her to the Empire.

James stirs in his sleep, makes a soft noise. Gregorius smiles and closes his eyes again.

The dream comes upon him suddenly.

* * *

_He is a child, and yet he knows he is not. A voice speaks, and he looks up into his mother's eyes._

_She smiles at him and takes his small hand in hers._

_"_ Ên _," she says, holding his forefinger in her gentle grasp. Her voice is soft, almost husky as she stresses the foreign accent. She runs her own finger down the next digit. "_ Tuêna. Thria. Fivvar. Fif _." She does the same thing with his other hand, counting slowly, enunciating each word, all the way up to_ tehan _._

_Gregorius feels his lips curve in delight._

_The words of his mother's native tongue are bold and strike with authority, unlike the smooth syllables of Latin._

_His mother is_ môdar _, his father_ fader _. His best friend Longinus is his_ brôthar _. An_ êg _comes from a_ hôn _, a_ hund _chases a_ vohs _, not a_ vulpes _, and when the sun comes up it is_ morgan _, and when it goes down it is_ naht _. The time in between is the_ dag _, when everything is ripe for the taking._

_The white flakes that fall from the sky in winter are_ snêo _, not_ nix _. When he cut his finger, it was_ blôd _that shone red as a rooster's_ camb _, not_ sanguis _. At night it is the_ mâno _that glows, not the_ luna _, and his father rides a_ hros _, not an_ equus _._

_His father carries a_ suerd _instead of a_ gladius _._

_His mother bakes_ brod _, not_ panis _._

_His mother ..._

_Gregorius looks up at her, suddenly frightened. None of this is right. He is a man, not a boy, Medicus to a cohort of the Legion, and his mother is --_

_She smiles at him again, presses her hand to her_ briost _, palm over her_ herta _._

_"_ Tômig _," she says, and it takes a moment for Gregorius to remember the word. It's borrowed from his mother's northern neighbors, tribes who sail to sea on strong oaken ships in an ocean without borders. At last it comes to him._

__  
**Free.**  


  


  
[](http://imgur.com/jpoN4uU)   


  
~ (still not) the end.

  
**  
**_NOTES:_  


Gallia Narbonensis was located in the present-day French regions of Languedoc and Provence. More information about it may be found [here](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Gallia_Transalpina).  
Information about the northern tribe the Romans called the _Anglii_ is [here](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Angles).  
The line _"A father could not be more delighted at the return of an only son ..."_ is from Homer's _Odyssey_ , Book XVI, which may be found [here](http://ancienthistory.about.com/library/bl/bl_text_homer_od_16.htm).  
The line by Ovid that Gregorius quotes is from the _Metamorphoses_ , Book VIII:1-80, which may be found [here](http://etext.virginia.edu/latin/ovid/trans/Metamorph8.htm).  
[A typical Roman house](http://www.roman-empire.net/society/soc-house.html)  
Various details of Roman rites and social history may be found [here](http://www.fortunecity.com/athena/exercise/2492/ROMANFUNERALS/), [here](http://www.roman-empire.net/society/society.html#funeral), [here](http://library.thinkquest.org/26602/ceremonies.htm#death), and [here](http://www.fullbooks.com/Life-in-the-Roman-World-of-Nero-and-St5.html).  
What a _bulla_ looked like is [here](http://www.vroma.org/images/mcmanus_images/bulla_replica.jpg).  
Images of typical Roman household gods are [here](http://www.vroma.org/images/mcmanus_images/lar_london.jpg), [here](http://www.vroma.org/images/mcmanus_images/genius_london.jpg), and [here](http://www.vroma.org/images/mcmanus_images/penates_london.jpg).  
The detail of the unborn calf's tongue was directly inspired by "The Miracle That Never Grows Stale," from _The Best of James Herriot: Favourite Memories of A Country Vet_.  
Various images of a _kithara_ may be found [here](http://shayenne.com/kithara.htm).  
Many wonderful images of daily Roman life are [here](http://www.vroma.org/images/mcmanus_images/index.html).

__  
**LANGUAGE RESOURCES:**  


[German/Old Saxon lexicon](http://www.koeblergerhard.de/aswbhinw.html)  
[Latin/Old Saxon lexicon, courtesy of The Northvegr Foundation](http://www.northvegr.org/lore/latinsaxon/index.php)  
A linguist at a certain Canadian university, who kindly allowed [](http://purridot.livejournal.com/profile)[](http://purridot.livejournal.com/)**purridot** and myself to pick his/her brain regarding Old Saxon grammar.  
[How to count to ten in tons of different languages, some of them extinct](http://www.zompist.com/euro.htm#nahali)

  
  
_In Memoriam:_  
K.D.M.  
February 2nd, 1917 - May 12th, 1986  



End file.
